


No More Rain (From Where We Came)

by angelfeast (miscellanium)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author's Favorite, Case Fic, Castiel-centric, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-21
Updated: 2011-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/angelfeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a drought in the Midwest and an angel in the backseat. Nobody's quite sure why he's there, but when the brothers pick up a case and Castiel invites himself along, it turns out that the answer—or something like it, anyway—is in Nebraska.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: mentions of children being kidnapped; Enochian chess.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Set in some vague near-future after s5 and written before/during s6, so no spoilers for anything after 5.22. Title is from Moby Grape's "Omaha", but if this fic has a theme song it's Sufjan Stevens' "For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti".
> 
> (2013 note: Masculine pronouns are used for Castiel throughout because this is an older fic - were it to be written today I'd use the gender-neutral pronoun "ou", but for now I don't mind the flow as is and hope you will enjoy it regardless.)
> 
> see end note for thanks & beta credits.

  
At first it seems like just another Winchester quirk, one of those peculiarities of the human race. But when it becomes a pattern, a thread easily followed—the same bright light of emotion found again and again in the folds, twists and overlays of perception—Castiel takes notice.

The road rolling away under them shines with the illusion of water, making Sam groan with frustration. Dean doesn't bother to look over; he knows that his brother is sprawled across the clammy leather, head almost hanging out the open window, and if he weren't driving he'd do the same. But even though they're both miserable from the heat—"Dude, if this was a newer car," Sam starts at one point, and Dean just turns up the radio until Springsteen shuts him up—Castiel senses that they're at peace, or as near to it as they can get these days.

Their latest hunt, another ghost who'd stuck around too long, hadn't gone too badly, even if said ghost had been an elephant that got its jollies from stomping on people. The only real injury had been when a stray dog adopted by the zoo, panicked by all the supernatural whatsit flying everywhere, flipped out and bit Castiel's foot, and even that was no big deal, fixable with just a blink. So Dean pulls over at the next diner they see and announces that they're all going to get ice cream, like he has after every other hunt this summer that hasn't had an unhappy ending. Which hasn't been that often, Castiel knows Dean is thinking—now, when he was driving, or later tonight, it all runs together sometimes for the angel—but seeing Sam perk up like a little kid at the prospect of ice cream pretty much always works as a distraction, and then Castiel is following them into the diner.

"Two cones and a bowl of chocolate cookie dough ice cream," Dean says with authority to the bored-looking girl at the register, ignoring Sam's patented long-suffering sigh. She can't be older than eighteen, and when Castiel tips her with some of Jimmy's money he quietly tells her to have faith, this job will be what pays for her to go to college and her life will change for the better. She stares at him disbelievingly, but puts together their order and rings it up with a faint smile on her face.

Dean rolls his eyes when Castiel finally makes his way to the wobbly round table Sam's claimed for them, holding a cone in each hand and cradling the bowl Dean got for him against his body.

Sam's considering saying something about how Dean's taste in flavors is surprisingly boring and maybe he could choose next time—it's always some kind of chocolate, what the hell—but he gave up complaining two or three weeks ago after Dean got really pissed and picked bacon ice cream at some weirdass place. It was worth it for the look on Dean's face. Maybe. And, honestly, this isn't too bad. When he opens his eyes again, lips and fingers sticky with sugar and nothing else on his mind, the first thing Sam sees is Castiel sitting there watching them, his own ice cream still untouched.

"Seriously, Cas," Sam says with a snort, "You don't have to let him get that stuff for you. We all know you're not going to eat it and it's just an excuse for Dean—"

"Yeah, you gonna finish that?" Dean says, smirking at Sam before reaching across the table, eyebrows raised as punctuation.

Castiel shrugs, one of many ( _too many_ , he thinks before he can stop, control the unease) human habits he's learned from the Winchesters. And so Dean slides the bowl towards himself like every other time, but Castiel's paying attention now and he can catch the familiar spark that ignites, that spreads fractal cracks through the dizzying gloom of time.

"Dean."

Both of them turn to look at the angel, Dean with a ridiculously big spoonful of chocolate almost in his mouth. Just then the ice cream starts melting rapidly, as though something had stopped it from doing so earlier and Dean's pretty sure he knows what that something is, _dick_ , so he makes a show out of whining even though he knows Castiel will just ignore him.

And ignore him he does. "Why do you keep buying ice cream after successful hunts?"

Dean scoffs. "Uh, it's summer? It's hot? We deserve some kind of treat every now and then after the shit we've been through?" He takes a huge bite. "Didn't know I needed a reason, Cas," Dean finishes, though judging from the slightly disgusted expression on Sam's face Castiel's the only one who understood him clearly.

"No. I can't tell what it is, but there's something more. There is a pattern that has manifested; something is lighting up the heavens, and whenever I try to trace it I always return to these moments, to you." Castiel says this so earnestly Sam can't stop himself from snickering and earning a glare from Dean. His relaxed mood gone, Dean pushes the now-empty bowl away from him and stands up, chair squeaking with each movement.

"Jesus, Cas, it's just ice cream. Give me a break for once, will you?"

Sam frowns in apology at Castiel as he gets to his feet and follows Dean outside, leaving the angel to clean up what the brothers left behind.

By the time Castiel walks up to the Impala, Dean's drumming the steering wheel impatiently in time to Country Joe, the radio way too loud and Sam almost pathetically happy to see Castiel join them. As soon as Castiel closes the side door behind him Dean shifts into gear and takes off, wind roaring through the windows.

The awkward silence that lies beneath the music stays with them for miles. There's no other worthwhile hunts nearby, and they're not too far from spending a night or two at Bobby's, so what is there to talk about? Eventually the oppressive heat puts Sam to sleep and Castiel's stretched out in the back seat again, staring out at the fields of yellow and green rushing by, aware of Dean watching him, of everything in the world.

When the radio switches over to more poppy fare Dean moves to change the station, but in the rearview mirror he sees Castiel twist upright and lean forward slightly, so he lets Orbison keep singing about the lonely.

\--

It's pushing midnight when they pull up in front of Bobby's house but there's still a few lights on inside, so Sam goes up and knocks while Dean and Castiel get all the luggage from the trunk. After a few minutes the lock clicks and Bobby opens the door, handing Sam a flask of holy water to pass around before he lets them in, shaking his head at the bags of unwashed laundry in Dean's arms.

"I'm trying to wind it down now, so any business you all want to take care of, save it for tomorrow." Sam mouths 'Same room?' to Dean, which Bobby ignores. "You know where everything is, go take care of yourselves and you better not break anything." Bobby says this last with an eye on Castiel, who had let fall the suitcases he was holding without checking the floor beneath. Castiel returns his gaze evenly, almost disapprovingly, and gets a shrug in response.

"Sure thing, Bobby," says Dean, tossing his laundry bags at Castiel before following Sam up the stairs.  
Castiel catches the bags easily and looks at them with a curious expression, still not familiar enough with this place and unsure how to proceed, and he's about to drop them on top of the others when Bobby sighs and takes them from him.

"Here." He opens a door near the stairs and tosses the bags down into the basement. "Now you can go do...whatever it is you angels do at night."

Castiel frowns. "We do not have night-time rituals." His body language seems to indicate he's considering saying more, but after a few uncomfortable minutes Bobby just puts it down to the way the angel still hasn't quite bothered to learn how to carry himself in his vessel.

Stamping down his hunter instincts and ignoring that unnerving blue stare, Bobby rolls his eyes and sweeps an arm toward his study. "Care to join me for a nightcap?"

It's a rhetorical question, but Castiel misses the touch of sarcasm so he follows Bobby without hesitation. The only one who can move silently throughout the creaky house, Castiel feels the ages with every footstep, more information in each layer of grime than all of Bobby's books.

After settling down again behind his perpetually cluttered desk Bobby pours two shot glasses full of whiskey and holds one out to Castiel, who has stationed himself underneath the arch at the opposite end of the room. The windows are open now that the dark has brought a cool breeze to replace the summer day, and in the rich earth beyond the walls Castiel knows there is a richer dust concealed. But he has to concentrate, remind himself of his imposed limits, and crosses to take the offering.

Bobby watches, almost amused, as the angel retreats again, holding the drink like he doesn't know what to do with it. Sometimes Castiel seems like a wild animal that could be gentled, given time and care, but then he'll say or do something not even anywhere _near_ —

"Why does Dean favor chocolate ice cream?" Castiel says, derailing Bobby's train of thought and proving his point at the same time.

"What?" Bobby snorts, gulps down his whiskey, and sets the empty tumbler down with a clunk. "What kind of heavenly question is that? And drink your moonshine, it's too good to waste."

Castiel eyes his glass suspiciously, turning it in his hands to watch the reflections in the deep brown liquid.  
"There is no moonlight in this alcohol."

"I was joking, that's—" Bobby rolls his eyes at the angel's blank expression. "Never mind. Hopefully the boys'll teach you more Earth lingo while you're riding all over with them. Why are you doing that, anyway? Doesn't seem very angelic to me."

Castiel shrugs, less awkwardly this time, and copies Bobby in knocking the drink back.

"It was made with a dedication to duty, and that is good," he says sincerely, ignoring the weird look this earns him. "As for travelling with Dean and Sam, it is...entertaining."

Bobby snorts.

"Why aren't you just zapping yourself places? Seems like that would be a hell of a lot easier than putting up with them for days on end." The sound of bickering drifts down from above, and he sighs. "I mean, God knows I love them, but there ain't nothing could get me to stay in that car with them."

"I'm conserving my energy." From where Castiel is standing all he can see through the study window is junked cars and their long-gone pasts of care and love, both equally substantial only to him.

Bobby's gut says that's a lie, but the thing in front of him is fucking with every instinct he has and more, so he gives up and goes with it.

"For what? All this joyriding doesn't make it seem like you're very busy these days, I gotta say."

"I am always busy," Castiel says, as serious as ever, but Bobby just chuckles as he pours them each another drink.

Castiel stays standing near Bobby's desk this time, though his gaze is fixed on something outside that the man can't see. Stiffly formal in his eternally rumpled trench coat and ill-fitting Sunday best, somehow the angel seems a little less out of place in here among the disorganized relics than out in the world divided up by skyscrapers and telephone wires. But Bobby knows that, contained as his grace may be, Castiel is infinite.

It's at this moment Castiel chooses to clear his throat, another oddly human gesture. Bobby refocuses on his face, currently featuring as stern and majestic an expression as a human face can wear.

"You have not answered my question about ice cream," intones the angel.

Bobby sighs. Again.

"Seriously?" This shot disappears faster than the first. "You've been in his head—hell, you put the kid's goddamn _life_ back together, and you have to ask about something like that?"

"It doesn't work that way." Castiel leaves it at that, casting his gaze up to the ceiling—the forest from which the house was born is growing there, hand-hewn support beams slowly decaying as generations walk underneath, abandonment rotting everything away, a graveyard where they stand—and Bobby looks up as well at the peeling plaster and sees nothing.

"Fine," huffs Bobby, "Be mysterious. And you should know by now there's no explaining us humans, so if you've been bugging Dean about this, quit it."

Castiel shifts, coat rustling against the wall like feathers, but remains quiet as Bobby fills his own glass a third time. The brothers have finally fallen asleep, and the only sounds now are that of human breath and earthly wind, indistinguishable to ears filled with grace.

"Memories," says Castiel suddenly. Bobby looks up at him in surprise, about to ask when the angel continues. "Being in a vessel limits me to seeing only memories of has been and will be. Dean—all I know of him is what I touched when raising him from Perdition and while in his dreams, and even that was not complete. Much had been—" A brief pause, and he looks uncomfortable. "Tainted. The majority of the humans I've encountered are as predictable as can be expected, but the Winchesters—" Another shrug, like he's practicing. "If there's any information that could help me better understand..." Castiel trails off again, his frustration audible now, and finishes his second drink without prompting, setting down the empty glass on a stack of precariously balanced books.

Bobby watches him carefully now—anybody else would be running their hands through their hair or pacing around or whatever, but the angel has no visual cues for Bobby to pick up on, permanently windswept hair untouched and body unnaturally still. He's staring, Bobby realizes, but Castiel meets his eyes without blinking. The room's atmosphere is verging on stifling when it hits him that this isn't so strange after all, that the space between words is familiar territory.

The Winchesters speak in silence and so Bobby had learnt the language.

With Castiel still staring at him, Bobby leans back behind his desk and pulls open drawer after drawer until he finds the small leather book, battered and worn like everything else John left behind. Flipping through the pages, he smiles at some of the photographs taped inside but doesn't stop going until he finds the one he's looking for. It falls out when he turns to the right place, and when he picks it up off the floor he notices that the corners are starting to rub away.

It's a Polaroid, though this has no sentimental meaning for Castiel—everything is long gone to him. Bobby glances at the picture one more time, then holds it up for Castiel to look at. But Castiel's eyes slide over it to the window, his raised hand interrupting Bobby's indignant question.

"Two-dimensional images are dead spots in my vision. I'd have to hold it to get any sense of what it is you want to show me." He sounds almost apologetic.

Bobby looks at him hard, but can't find any reason to disbelieve him and hands it over.

The dirty white plastic of the photograph's edges looks new against Castiel's fingertips somehow, and he holds it tenderly like a small book, the narrative clicking into place as the camera flashes: the ink activates, the square of chemicals is spat out into the sun and John's shaking it, watching the colors develop into Dean—seven years old and sporting a grin messy with ice cream—who's standing next to him now, still clutching his shotgun victoriously and leaning into the warm touch of his dad's hand, a hand that will be replaced by the mark of Castiel.

"Turn it over."

On the back is John's childlike handwriting, the cramped block letters saying only "1986, Omaha – Bullseye!"

Castiel looks at the penciled words—John sitting up long after the boys have gone to sleep, hunched over a table covered with rifle parts, the only light in the motel room from the street outside, limiting his words and writing carefully to avoid misspellings—then Bobby takes the photograph back and the image is gone.

The mood has changed in some subtle way Bobby isn't quite sure of, so he pauses before asking, "Does that help any?"

When the answer finally comes, it's just one word. "Yes."

This time Bobby's positive Castiel wants to say more, but whatever it is never comes. Castiel's quiet, the wind outside rising and falling as though to make up for the fact that he's not breathing, his hands back in the trench coat's pockets and his shoulders squared tense. The angel's staring at the album like he's trying to look at it, rather than through it, and Bobby has to resist the urge to hide it away.

"It was a gift to me, from when he still gave gifts." He doesn't know what good it's doing to, well, bare his soul like this—it's the only way he can think of to put it—but since he's got Castiel's attention again he continues. "Closest thing to family and all that, you know. And every father's gonna be proud of his sons."

At this Castiel withdraws without moving, eyes dimming.

"Balls," Bobby mutters.

He opens the book, leather creaking, finds the photograph again more quickly this time. And even though Castiel said it was a dead spot, somehow he can tell just what to expect, as if he wanted this, knew it was going to happen—Bobby can see that much, at least. There's no quizzical look when he waves Castiel closer; if anything, there's the beginning of a smile.

"Let me see your pockets," Bobby says gruffly, shaking his head when Castiel indicates the obvious ones on the sides. "Not secure. If I'm going to let you keep this, it better be someplace safe."

"I will not lose it," says Castiel, solemn like he's talking about a holy artifact (and maybe he is), but Bobby just reaches up and pulls open the coat, examining its lining the same way the angel's studying him.

At first Bobby decides on the left breast pocket, but then he remembers that first meeting, with the stabbing and everything, so never mind. But the right—

It's marked with a splash of red thread that's almost too bright against the dark brown lining, each stitch put there by someone who had no skill other than love.

Bobby stares at the embroidery for a moment, then slides the photo behind Jimmy Novak's name.

Castiel blinks down at him, body heat cool where it should be warm, reminding the hunter that this thing is not human.

"Thank you," Castiel says, affection in his voice, and he's a mass of contradictions bundled together, just like anyone else, so Bobby gives his head another shake and steps back.

The night breeze is cold now, bringing the promise of autumn into the room and making Bobby shiver. He checks the clock and groans involuntarily, the noise putting Castiel on alert.

"I was gonna go to bed hours ago. Idjit!" It's unclear whether this last is directed at himself or the angel, but Castiel relaxes anyway.

"There are things I should take care of." And he's gone, leaving Bobby alone with a few sheets of paper drifting to the floor.

\--

The first thing Castiel hears when he returns, appearing in the middle of Bobby's dining room, is "— _glue_ on the toilet seat!"

"Hiya, Cas!" Dean shouts from the kitchen, cutting off further complaints from Sam and sounding far too cheerful for being awake at this time in the morning.

Sam's sitting at the table glowering in Dean's general direction and doesn't seem like he's going to be particularly responsive, so Castiel turns to Bobby and tilts his head in question.

The most Bobby can do is mouth, rather frantically, "You don't want to know," then Dean's sweeping into the room, too obvious in bypassing Sam to wave a couple of newspaper clippings in the general vicinity of Castiel's face.

"There's something looks good in Nebraska—bunch of disappearances from this kids' camp and some trails nearby, one person says she saw something but the paper won't say what, just says she's traumatized. We're gonna check it out, okay?"

While Dean's explaining all this, Sam disappears into the kitchen; both Bobby and Castiel watch him take a box of pepper grounds and empty it into the bag of coffee Dean's left open on the counter. Dean clears his throat impatiently, and Castiel swings his attention back.

"That sounds worthwhile."

"Oh, well, high praise coming from you." Dean looks cynical, but his tone is sincere and Castiel nods, smile faint but unmistakable. Dean's expression softens, and he's about to reach out for Castiel's shoulder (he thinks he's being subtle but the angel knows his soul) when Sam comes back, shoving a mug of coffee into Dean's raised hand.

Dean gives his brother an annoyed look but doesn't set down the drink, cupping his hands around it to absorb the warmth.

"Anyway, uh, the stuff's already in the car, and we'll be ready to leave soon." Behind Dean, Castiel sees Bobby draw a finger across his throat.

"I'll meet you there."

Dean's grin falters. "Important angel business, huh?"

Castiel shrugs again—it comes more easily now—and vanishes.

\--

He's underwater when the phone rings. He takes one last look at the ruins, reaches out his hands in blessing, and he's gone, the water churning back into place behind him.

The white cliffs tower above, the limestone radiating a steady calmness against his back and he feels small in a way that's not unwanted. There's salt drying on his uncovered skin, a dull burning sensation that means nothing to him.

"Hello, Dean."

The chuckle that comes through is tinny; he would find the cell phone's artificiality grating if it were not for the fact that he knows the man, understands him and loves him despite everything.

"Dude, you know my phone says you're out of range? I'm not even going to ask where you are, okay, but I wanted to let you know we should be in Bellevue in a couple of hours." Dean reels off the address of the hotel, speaking loudly as the rattle of the car radio threatens to drown him out.

"What happened to your radio?" There didn't seem to be any electronic voice phenomena, but Castiel can't allow himself to dismiss anything these days.

"Ugh, Sam did something that got it stuck on the worst station ever—" His voice rises on the last three words and Castiel can hear laughter start up that Dean resolutely ignores, though his tone veers towards decidedly petulant: "And when I tried to fix it there were...complications and now I can't turn it off." Sam's at the point of wheezing now, the sound crackling into Castiel's ear.

"That's unfortunate," Castiel says. Sam starts howling again and Dean just hangs up.

Castiel closes his phone, the click seeming too gentle a thing to be able to shut out such raucous humanity. He leans his head back until it hits the cool stone behind him, looking up at the spots of grey punctuating the faded blue sky. Jimmy's voice is soft inside him, a sleepy whisper of longing and regret to which Castiel has grown accustomed, attached even. The ocean nearby, rolling white on white, muffles the crack that comes when he spreads his wings and leaves the clouds behind.

\--

He touches down briefly in Muncie, Indiana, hot summer air whipping around him as he lands. The parking lot is overgrown and the pavement has cracked, black fragments tilting up like glass shards. Choosing each step carefully, he finds his way to where the weeds are thickest. When he gets to the center, he considers kneeling but decides against it, arms stiff at his sides and coat flapping in the wind.

" _Kýrie eléēson_ ," says the angel, voice rolling out low and smooth like thunder. " _Christé eléēson_." The words are benediction and absolution, though the time for both has passed. " _Kýrie eléēson_."

" _Absolve, Domine_ ," he starts, then he swallows and ends up hurrying through the rest. As he comes to the end the words slow again, each one pulled out of his throat. " _Mereantur evadere iudicium ultionis, et lucis aeternae beatitudine perfrui_." The unspoken _esiasch_ echoes around him, the plants rustling like the reed fields in Egypt all those years ago as he turns and begins walking back. The sky is clear here but he cannot stay, can never stay still for long.

There is always more to do, and so he moves on.

\--

" _Jesus f_ —I almost had a heart attack!" Sam clutches at his chest as he staggers away from the doorway, glaring at Castiel who still doesn't seem to understand why appearing inches away from somebody's face—or had he been waiting on the other side of the door, because, _weird_ —is such a big deal, and his brother obviously isn't trying hard enough to teach his angel to be less of such a freaking creep sometimes. Said brother is, of course, currently laughing his ass off, so Sam turns around and snaps at him.

"Did you put him up to this, Dean?"

Dean snorts. "As if. Somehow I doubt pranks are really the domain of nerd angels."

Castiel considers the two of them, then lets the corners of his mouth curl up as he says slowly, "There is much you still do not know, Dean."

There's a pause, as though they're processing this, then Sam lets out a guffaw and immediately claps his hands over his mouth. Castiel just walks past him into the room, past Dean's stare, to stand by one of the beds, fingers trailing over the fake mahogany of the headboard.

There's something rough about the brothers that can't be disguised by a suit and tie, and they look out of place here against the almost garishly sleek surfaces that are someone's idea of presidential. Castiel doesn't think he looks wrong here because he knows he doesn't really belong anywhere right now.

Sam shifts uncomfortably in the silence and glances at Dean, as if to say _He's your angel, you go_. And though Dean answers with _He's not_ mine, _fuck off_ , he steps forward.

"Hey, uh, we were actually about to head out, if you hadn't noticed. So if you wanna—"

"Is the radio still broken?" Castiel asks without looking up from the engineered wood, the trees torn apart and threaded back together.

Dean rolls his eyes. "I think we've got more important things to worry about right now. Like, I don't know, whatever's going all Hansel and Gretel on us?"

"You are misremembering your lore," Castiel says disapprovingly, and Sam snorts.

"Not the point, Cas. But he's right, we should get going if we don't want to interrupt our only witness during dinner."

Castiel's face is blank so Sam continues patiently: "Which means she'll get pissed at us, making her uncommunicative and completely useless." He has to raise his voice at the end to cover Dean's muttered "But the FBI can do whatever it wants."

With a nod, Castiel disappears.

"What—"

"How much do you want to bet he just zapped himself to the car? Lazy asshole," Dean says, the smirk on his face undermining his tone.

Sure enough, when they get there Castiel's already draped himself across the back seat—"I never agreed!" Sam shouts over the singsong of "You owe me a buck, Sammy!"—and the radio's playing something that Dean doesn't recognize.

"Dude, what is this?" Dean says at the same time Sam points out that that position can't be good for Castiel's back, and the angel just closes his eyes.

Dean tries to turn off the radio but nothing happens. Frowning, he puts on his seat belt and starts up the engine, glancing at Castiel in the rearview mirror.

"Get the tape box and put one in, I don't care what," he says, and Sam does so with an indulgent smile. The tape deck rejects Black Sabbath, but that one was old anyway so Sam tries another. After several perfectly good tapes have been spat back out, they look at each other—

"Seriously, what the fuck?"

"Hymns as sung by castrati. I've patched us through to the eighteenth century," comes the answer from behind him.

Before Dean can ask, Sam leans over and whispers a definition into his ear that makes him groan and hit his forehead on the steering wheel.

"No. No. We are not doing this."

Castiel's sigh lands somewhere between disgruntled and amused, but the music switches mid-aria to Neil Young's "Alabama."

Dean makes a face but doesn't comment further.

It's a half hour drive, and by the time they pull up in front of Janet Richman's house the same three songs have played enough times to make Dean and Sam maybe thoroughly hate Neil Young.

"I know what I'm getting Cas for Christmas," Dean grumbles as he gets out of the car. "A friggin' walkman."

Castiel slides up and away from his seat, exit as graceful as Sam's is awkward, and starts walking down the lawn.

"Hey, no!" Dean hisses. "Get back here!"

The angel stops but doesn't turn around, neck stiff with exasperation.

"I was under the impression that questioning witnesses was standard procedure," Castiel says, and Dean could swear that's sarcasm and he so does not have the time for this right now.

"Okay, no. _We_ do the questioning, remember? You can just, I dunno, stand in the back and look all serious and intimidating and shit, like you always do. Don't open your mouth. Not after last time." Now Castiel turns, and that glare makes him feel like he's talking to a five-year-old. A five-year-old that is actually an angel as ancient as who even knows wearing the body of a thirty-something guy. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he thinks: _Our life is seriously fucking weird._

For whatever reason, though, Castiel listens, letting Sam and Dean walk ahead before following behind, the crunching of dry grass the only sign he's still there.

\--

"Janet Richman?" When she nods, Dean and Sam flash their fake IDs. "FBI. I'm Agent Blackmore," Dean says. "This is Agent Glover," he jerks a thumb at Sam, "And Agent Lord." After a beat Castiel pulls out his own ID card—right side up this time, thankfully.

"I, I don't understand. I already talked to the police, and the newspaper, and none of them thought there was anything left to do." Janet stands behind her half-open door, regarding them with a mix of confusion and hope.

"Yes, well, there's been a string of similar kidnappings over in Papillion, so it seemed like we should check this out. Mind if we come in?" Dean gives her his trademark charming grin, and she smiles hesitantly back, stepping aside to let them through.

A quick study of her main hallway and living room tell the brothers most of what they need to know: the photographs are only of her and the missing boy—no father—and of the few artsy decorations there are, most are in crayon. They exchange a look before sitting in chairs opposite from the couch Janet's chosen. She's watching them nervously, alternating between tucking her dark brown hair behind her ears and fingering at some loose threads on her dress slacks.

"I know it must be hard for you, Ms. Richman, losing your only son," Sam says, the perfect picture of empathy. "If you could just tell us exactly what you saw that day?"

"I said I already—" Janet cuts herself off. Clenching her hands into fists, knuckles white against her thighs, she starts again in a monotone. "Charlie and I went to Fontenelle, to check out the Indian trail because he wanted to see the lodges. We were just coming up to the first one when there was this...sound, and then behind us there was," she pauses. "You're not going to believe this. They didn't."

"Try us," Dean says, as Sam smiles encouragingly. She glances briefly at Castiel, leaning against the entrance to the room and expressionless as usual, before continuing.

"It was Martha, Martha Livingston the PTA chair, and some other women I know from work and around town, and there was this, this." She looks nervous again. "Well, it looked like a cauldron, I guess. But then Martha said something and then I must have been knocked out, because I remember waking up," her breath catches. "When I woke up, Charlie was gone."

Sam grabs the box of tissues from the table next to him and hands it to Janet, but she just holds it tightly, eyes bright as she shakes her head and sniffles.

"It must have been something else, right? I mean, Martha would never—"

"I must see your son's room," Castiel interrupts, heading towards the stairs before any of them even have time to object.

Dean curses under his breath and leaps up to follow. "Sorry, he's still learning his way around," he calls over his shoulder, leaving Sam to reassure Janet that this is all perfectly reasonable behavior and she shouldn't be suspicious of Agent Lord at all.

Castiel's already found the right room when the rest of them get there, and he's making a mess of the toys and clothes left untouched. Just as Janet's about to run in and pull him away, Castiel straightens up, holding the straps of a small blue and yellow backpack in one hand.

"Look at this." Hanging from one of the keyrings is a bundle of feathers and bone, bound together with sinew.

Sam and Dean tense at the same time. From the look on Janet's face she has no idea what it is. They're going to avoid telling her if they can, because no parent wants to know that their child is—was—marked, targeted.

"Do you know where Charlie could have gotten that?" Dean asks, staying with Janet in the doorway and watching as his brother approaches Castiel (who raises the backpack higher so Sam doesn't have to hunch over) and picks up the talisman, examining it with caution.

"No, but he's always coming home from after-school care with all sorts of things; they do crafts." Flustered by Dean's hard stare, Janet doesn't notice that she's slipped into the present tense and he's not going to let her.

"Do you know who's in charge of that?"

"Um, it's—" Her eyes widen. "Martha. Martha's the one who watches them."

The look the brothers exchange tell Janet that they believe her, but really it means something more like _Well, fuck_.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Richman," Castiel says carefully, the way people recite lines aloud, as he pockets the talisman. "We will contact you if we need anything further."

He leads them out of the house and Sam waves to Janet, leaving her standing worried on the steps, before leaning into Dean.

"Why wouldn't the police have at least listened to her about Martha being the kidnapper?"

"People tend to tune out once you start quoting Macbeth at them," Dean mutters back, anger beneath his facetious tone.

\--

Dean fumes all the way back, grunting whenever Sam makes a particularly interesting point with his speculations.

"Bottom line is, we're dealing with witches."

"Well, yes," Sam says, looking about as resigned as he sounds.

"Goddamn it." Dean gives the steering wheel a thump. Though there's no real conviction behind the blasphemy, Castiel clears his throat from the back seat. Dean rolls his eyes and shoots a look at Sam, who carefully keeps his expression unreadable.

"Really, Cas? I'm pretty sure we've said other things worth complaining about, if you're gonna start up now."

"The line must be drawn somewhere," says Castiel with an air of finality that makes Dean shake his head.

"Fine, whatever." Then they're back at the hotel's parking lot and the brothers take the lead again, falling easily into the rhythm that marks their lives.

Castiel hangs back; he does not seem to be needed here, not with Dean rummaging through bags and calling out orders to Sam, who's cradling a phone against his ear with his shoulder as he boots up the laptop. When Dean disappears into the bathroom with an armful of clothes, Castiel's left to watch Sam hunched on one of the beds, legs hooked over the edge and face lit by the unnatural glow of the computer screen. He shifts, readying for flight, and the movement catches Sam's attention.

"Where you going?"

"Everywhere." It's the easiest answer.

Sam snorts, looking back down at the search results he's got open. "At least wait for Dean to come back out. He's going to think you're ditching this hunt if you just skip out without even leaving a note."

Castiel refrains from pointing out that he never actually agreed to work on this one. Instead, he stays where he is, both feet firmly on the floor. After a few moments Sam calls him over, gesturing for him to sit and pointing at the screen at the same time.

"What do you think of this?" It's an online forum for local mothers, specifically a thread in which there's a vacation trip of some sort being planned—elaborate maps, exhaustive packing lists that still seem vague somehow, and no mention of children. At all. After remarking on this for Castiel, because the angel's standing next to him now but obviously isn't planning on getting any closer, Sam glances up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Castiel's eyes flick to meet Dean's then back down.

"Look for unusual incidents in the places highlighted on the maps," Castiel says, moving away towards the door when Sam nods and goes back to the search engines.

"How soon did they say the food would be here, Sam?" Dean's toweling off his hair (no shower, just a quick sink rinse to feel better) and looks much more natural— _real_ —in faded cotton and denim.

"It's here now," says Castiel, opening the door suddenly and leaving the delivery boy with his fist raised.

"Dean. Your payment." Castiel stares at the boy—seventeen years old, nametag pin scuffed and unreadable but his name is John, he hates guns and misses his younger brother, buys bootleg cigarettes on weekends and will grow up to be disappointed with his life—until Dean comes over and shoves a couple of tens at him in exchange for the smiley-faced plastic bags. The angel sends him off with some more of Jimmy's rapidly dwindling money and a reminder that his mother loves him.

Sam takes one of the bags and pulls out two styrofoam cartons, putting one on the bedspread beside him and balancing the other on the knee not currently occupied by a laptop. Dean grabs up the first carton and sits down next to him, handing him a plastic fork and leaning in to see what's on the screen, fingers and lips already greasy with chicken wing residue.

Before Castiel can start looking restless again, Dean picks up the bag at his feet. "I got you some beer."

Castiel's lips quirk upward and he returns to the bed, settling down on Sam's other side with the six-pack of El Sol in his lap. He finishes a can with one long swallow and opens a second as Dean watches with the same affectionate amusement he often has.

"What have you found, Sam?" Castiel asks, voice muffled as he bends down to place the empty cans upright on the floor.

"Nothing big like cattle mutilations or anything, but all the map places I've checked so far have one thing in common: they've been having a drought for the past couple of months." Sam shrugs, taking another bite of his salad.

Castiel's eyes narrow. "Tell me exactly where these places are."

"There's this town in Maine I've never heard of called Waterside, then there's Yucatan, Mexico; Java, Indonesia; and the Salisbury Plain in England."

Dean laughs derisively. "What kind of trip is that? Did they just throw a whole bag of darts at a map?"

"No." Castiel sounds deadly serious, and Dean goes quiet. "Those are very deliberate choices; they all fall on intersections of the earth's ley lines."

"Whoa, hold on—you don't mean to tell me that those are for real? There's never been anything that corroborated their existence." Even Sam's most skeptical expression can't disguise his enthusiasm, making Dean nudge him in soft mockery. Castiel says nothing, just raises his eyebrows slightly and stares until Sam has the courtesy to look embarrassed.

Clearing his throat, Dean points at the screen. "Aren't these also all really old witching grounds? I mean, Stonehenge, that's gotta have some serious mojo attached to it."

"Yes. To connect and rejuvenate ley gates very high-level magic is required. Old magic."

Sam starts, almost dropping the laptop. "The missing children."

Castiel sighs, an oddly tired sound, and finishes a fourth beer. "Yes."

"That's why the weather's been the same everywhere we've gone, Dean—they're feeding on any kind of energy they can get to make this thing, and nature and children are the most powerful sources." Sam sounds excited that they've figured it out, but Dean's answer is a heartfelt groan.

"So, basically, we've got a convention of witches with the hots for little kids, anything in the air, and the whole world. Awesome."

"Coven," Sam insists, like that's what really matters here, but Dean doesn't care. He hates them, why should he bother to get it right?

"Stupid fucking witches," he says with feeling. "Stupid fucking witch convention."

He flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sam's leg is warm against his own, each hit of the enter key shaking them both, and the spring of the bed as Castiel stands rolls them closer together then apart. Dean raises his head slightly, following Castiel's movement with his eyes as the angel crosses to the window, hand on the windowsill and back stiff like a sentry.

There's no curtains, just blinds, and the window isn't even open, but Dean could swear that he's hearing a rustling, maybe even the sound of feathers rasping against each other. Sam doesn't look up, though, and Castiel's not moving, even if something in the line of his shoulders tells Dean he wants to.

They're out there, his brothers. He can hear them, loud then quiet then too close to be real. He doesn't feel safe here, and if he's not safe then neither are the Winchesters. Slow and confining as Castiel's life may be now, it has become familiar to him, a regular comfort of the sort he once thought was eternal. He doesn't want to lose it again, even if he knows he must someday.

A creaking behind him means that Dean's gotten up as well (it's easy to tell them apart, they move differently) and is walking purposefully but without confidence.

"What are you looking at?" Dean bumps shoulders with Castiel as he peers out.

"Everything."

Dean chuckles, saying dryly, "Guess I'm more a small-picture kind of guy." He watches the cars and the flickering street lamps, the road scene that's the same wherever he goes.

Even at night the blacktop's still hot, heat radiating upwards until the waves disappear. The sound of Sam typing makes him not so much sleepy as at ease; he's heard it at night often enough now for it to become a sort of lullaby.

They stand there, conversation hanging as it always does, and Castiel's still tense, Dean can see it in the press of his lips.

"Does it rain in heaven?"

"No," Castiel says, and Dean doesn't know where to go next.

Whatever the mood was it's changed now. "I should go," says Castiel, like he's continuing something said before.

"Go where?" The aggressive undercurrent in Dean's voice makes Castiel finally turn and look at him.

"Someplace where I will not put you two in danger."

Dean, caught off guard by the blunt answer, glances away.

"We can handle ourselves, Cas. You're helping us on this hunt; if you go off and get killed, what good would that do us?" He can't get any closer so he tilts his head up, challenging the angel to step back to keep eye contact.

Castiel just raises his eyes, the same bright blue as always even in the shadow of his eyelashes.

"What good would it do for us to all get killed?"

"Humor me." Dean's eyes are dark, frustration tugging his smirk out of shape.

Castiel turns away, slipping his hands into his pockets and staring out the window again at the empty road.

"Sometimes I would play chess to pass the time," he says finally.

It takes Dean a couple of seconds to figure out what that was supposed to be an answer to, and when he does it's his turn to look away, to try and hide a smile.

"Well, Sam's your nerd-in-arms, so—" Sam chucks an empty beer can at him and promptly returns to pretending he hadn't been paying attention.

"Enochian chess." Castiel looks at him sidelong, lips quirking and Dean just has to laugh.

"Doesn't that take four players?" Sam asks from his bed, all pretense of research gone.

"I have enough experience for at least two," says Castiel in a masterpiece of understatement, his next blink causing a board and four sets of pieces to appear on the replica Oval Office desk.

Sam practically shoves his computer aside and jumps up, brimming with geeky interest, and Dean follows Castiel over—

"Okay what the fuck is that."

"An Enochian chess board." Castiel starts placing the pieces into teams on the board. "This is the field for Air, and these are the arrays of Air, Fire and Earth," he says in an aside to Sam.

"Yeah, no, that looks like someone decided to try and paint a seizure. And then threw up on it." Dean's circling the table, making face after face as he tries to focus his eyes on the squares and triangles of the board. "Jesus, those colors—is it radioactive? That looks radioactive."

Sam hisses, "Shut _up_ , Dean," glaring at him like Castiel is revealing some incredibly important secret and he is just _ruining_ the moment.

"I will teach you how to play. It might help if you took a seat, Dean," Castiel says, voice neutral even as amusement flits across his face.

Dean grimaces, but he pulls over one of the ostentatious suede chairs and slouches down in it. The rules quickly become nonsense, however, and even Sam clearly has difficulty following Castiel's explanations. The room's warm and dry, the rumble of Castiel's voice a comforting rhythm, and soon Dean finds himself jerking awake.

"I'm up! I'm up," he mutters, glancing around.

Sam snickers, unperturbed by Dean's dirty look. Castiel is staring at him, and Dean gets the uneasy feeling that the angel's looking through him, or maybe into him.

"Tomorrow will be a long day. You should sleep," Castiel says to Sam, his eyes still on Dean.

"C'mon, Dean." Sam shakes his hair out of his face as he unfolds himself from the chair, shooting a regretful glance at the aborted game as he heads to the bathroom.

It's late—early, the digital clock says—and Dean knows he's tired but he still can't shake the feeling that something's wrong, that he shouldn't close his eyes.

"Good night, Dean." Castiel hasn't moved, hasn't looked away.

"I," Dean pauses as Sam comes back. "Wait a sec, okay?" He grabs his toothbrush from the duffel, pointing it at Castiel as he backs away.

Castiel stays where he is, sitting straight in a way that's not tense but not relaxed either, the chess pieces he had carefully arranged left untouched. A can rests against his foot, the person who left it there currently snuffling against a thin hotel pillow. Even over the creaking of Sam's bed and the water running in the bathroom Castiel can hear Dean humming to himself.

Eventually the light beneath the door clicks off and Dean reemerges expecting to see Castiel's eyes fixed on him like there's some frigging angel magnet in his head, but the angel's watching the ceiling, head tilted back and eyes moving like he's searching for something.

"Where are you gonna go?"

"Wherever I need to."

Dean swallows his sigh and looks hard at Castiel.

"You're going to be here tomorrow." It's a statement, not a question, and Castiel doesn't answer, just gives him a half-smile.

Now he sighs, getting under his sheets and reaching for the bedside light. "Night, Cas," Dean says, his hand still on the switch.

Sam lets out a groan that sounds suspiciously like "Oh my _God_ ," but any further commentary is cut short by a pillow to the head.

When the light goes, so does Castiel.

\--

He spends some time in Giza, hand on the cool stone of the lion's paw as he talks to the wandering dead and sends them home. When the wind picks up and his pockets grow heavy with sand, he moves, touches foreheads with the Father of Terror and bids it peace.

Next he's in a small grove of trees in Alaska, following a trail of blood-splashed rocks as ribbons of green light paint the night sky above him. The demon's riding a wolf when Castiel finds it, its muzzle deep in the stomach of its packmate. Its eyes flash black then Castiel drops down, grabbing the scruff of its neck and holding its mouth closed with an iron grip, burning its soul away. The wolf drops dead and Castiel's breathing from the exertion, the northern lights coloring everything with a sickly sheen. There's nothing worth staying for here.

Sometimes he goes between, where the air is neither cold nor dry because there is no air. The vacuum drags at him, his vessel, clothes and body pulled almost to the point of tearing, then he's out again. He always has to rest afterwards, listening to the flexing of his wings, checking for the snap of unreal bones. It would be easier to leave this flesh behind, move freely the way he used to—sweeping down on Jericho when he and his family were made of nothing but war cries and faith—but it's not time to let go yet.

He's about to set off again when there's a tug somewhere inside him, a tug that makes him think of the pain of helplessness.

 _Dean_.

\--

Dean's dreaming of Hell. The details are different but everything else is always the same because it's Hell and he doesn't want to die, doesn't want to go back, doesn't want his brother to—

Sam's snoring hides the sound of fluttering but not Dean's soft whimpers and immediately Castiel's by his side, pressing cool fingers to his temple and bringing a brief peace.

The smell of sweat and brimstone lingers. Castiel knows that only one of them is here in this moment but the knowledge changes nothing. Looking at Dean he sees flashes of the forty-year siege, dead angels and dead eyes all around him. The air is stifling, the broken AC grinding like Alastair's hooks and chains, but Dean's breathing evenly, his blankets kicked off and wrongness buried down deep again.

Castiel sits at the table, picking up one of the rooks left on the board. All the pieces are still there, each Egyptian god rendered in miniature for lesser beings to manipulate. He rolls the rook in his hands, the stiff paper sticking to his fingers, but nothing happens and he sets it back down.

The sky outside is beginning to lighten, angel voices calling to him as the sun rises, and he stays.  



	2. part one

  
   
 

Sam's the first one up, stumbling out of the shower still groggy. It's not until he's pulling on a t-shirt and about to leave for coffee and takeout—sure, the hotel has free food, but none of it's greasy enough by Dean's standards—that he notices Castiel watching him intensely.

"Did you do that all night," he says, voice flat. Castiel shakes his head but Sam makes a face anyway before pulling the door closed behind him.

"Get me some donuts!" Dean shouts sleepily, demand muffled by his pillow.

Castiel considers this for a moment, then appears in the parking lot right in front of Sam who promptly throws the car keys at his face.

"Fucking _Christ_!"

"Dean would also like some donuts with his breakfast," says Castiel, handing the keys back to Sam.

"...Oh." Sam stares at the rapidly healing cut on Castiel's cheek. "What, are you his errand boy now?"

Castiel narrows his eyes. "No."

Grabbing the keys Sam gets in and starts the car, Impala rumbling to life as Castiel stands outside and watches him pull away—only to stop a few yards farther down.

Sam cranks down the window and sticks his head out. "Quit looking like a kicked cat and get in here."

Thankfully for Sam's nerves Castiel walks over instead of teleporting, car dipping as he climbs in the passenger side and reclines the bench seat as far as it can go, immediately readjusting it back upright until Sam stops complaining.

The radio stays off and doesn't seem inclined to do anything weird, implying that it's working again, but yesterday's put Sam off so they drive in a not quite awkward silence.

They stop at the first diner they see, and Sam's about to get out when Castiel speaks.

"Today's going to be difficult for all of us." His voice is quiet, serious, his eyes cast down as his hands lie limp in his lap.

Sam tenses. "What's wrong, Cas?"

"Nothing's wrong. I've been anticipating this," says Castiel, and Sam has to resist the urge to reach out and shake him.

"Look, I get that being obtuse is part of your thing, but you're starting to freak me out, okay?"

Castiel looks at him, his expression almost amused. "Don't worry. This shouldn't be more dangerous than anything you've already experienced." Castiel leans across and presses their hands together, holding firmly even as Sam starts back, and then there's something between their palms even though he never let go.

"I trust that you'll understand when the time comes," the angel says, and then he's gone, leaving Sam alone with a knight lying on his still-outstretched hand.

\--

Dean's wide awake when Castiel shows up, standing over Sam's bed and alternating between brushing his teeth and clicking around on the laptop. Neither of them acknowledge each other—Dean looks up briefly when Castiel makes the chess set vanish with a wave of the hand, but that's it.

Dean steps around him on the way back to the bathroom, brushing past him not like something taken for granted but something more familiar, and maybe Castiel makes a point of not getting out of the way.

They work around each other like this, getting ready for when Sam gets back—or rather, Dean gets ready and Castiel stands there. Then there's the sound of footsteps outside; Castiel opens the door just as Sam knocks with an elbow, hands full with bags and trays. The brothers immediately pick up bantering as if they hadn't left off, but before Castiel can leave Sam shoves a cardboard cup of coffee at him.

"Try this."

"You didn't make it all foofy, did you?" Dean asks as Castiel takes it. "A warrior of God does not need foofy drinks."

Sam rolls his eyes. "No, Dean. But you know, I wouldn't be surprised if all angels had a sweet tooth, because—"

As they start arguing Castiel finishes the still-steaming coffee in one swallow, burning and healing himself as it goes down.

"What is the plan for today?"

The reaction he gets is a slightly baffled one, Dean's speech on the inherent sissiness of whipped cream trailing off around a mouthful of donut and egg sandwich as Sam just looks from his face to the now-empty cup and back.

"Well, we were going to check out that Fontenelle trail Janet mentioned, see if we could find any of the witches' stuff and get rid of it before they get rid of us," says Dean between bites.

"It's not even ten minutes from here," Sam adds, turning his laptop around to show the directions Dean looked up earlier.

"Then we should get going." Castiel throws the cup into the trash can without even trying to aim, and then before they can protest he's walking down the hall and Dean's yelling "Hey, wait!" after him.

"It's still way early—we have time!" Dean leans against the doorframe, affectionate exasperation apparent.

Castiel pauses, pulls something out of one of his pockets and stares at it for a good minute before putting it back. Just as Sam and Dean exchange a worried look, the angel turns.

"Do you have time for ice cream?" he asks carefully, like he's testing a hypothesis.

The brothers stare back at him, Sam because he's got the irrational feeling that this is a trap or something and Dean because seriously what the fuck is up with Cas these days.

"If this is you trying to say that Sam's right—"

"That is not relevant. Do you?"

"Um, no, dude," Dean says with a chuckle as he advances slowly, hands up. "That's for after. We haven't even gotten started."

Castiel's eyes go narrow, the thin line of his lips marginally more interested than irritated. "I see. Then what do you propose to do with your free time?"

Sam interjects then, all arms and knitted brows like he's talking to a group of five-year-olds. "How about we get out of the hallway?"

"Oh right, and apologize to _all_ the people we've been inconveniencing. How many would you say there were, Cas? Fifty? One hundred?"

Castiel hesitates before answering, his frown suggesting a concern for Dean's sanity. "I haven't seen anybody."

Sam just huffs at that, shoving a duffel bag at Dean as he herds them outside.

Once they're standing around the Impala, heat waves making the parking lot shimmer, the conversation peters out; Castiel's impatient again (which is default angel mode, really, but that doesn't stop Dean complaining about it) and Sam has to admit that the concierge told him there's not much to do this time of year in Bellevue, so they might as well head down to the forest. Dean mopes a bit, putting in a tape of Deep Purple and cranking up the bass, but the way he drums the steering wheel and takes the turns a little too sharp is more than enough to tell Sam that it's just an act. Castiel, lying across the back seat and eyes fixed on the ceiling, doesn't notice or more likely doesn't care, the thrill of the hunt different for one of the hunted.

The road becomes bumpy as they pull up in front of Camp Logan Fontenelle, strewn with branches that crack beneath the wheels. After Dean finds a secluded place to park and rummage through the trunk, Sam insists on grabbing a trail map and reading aloud from it. Castiel quickly stops listening, Dean's snickering over some of the names decidedly predictable.

There is something dangerous in the way the trees reach up, bright green leaves fading early in the heat, limbs curling together to block out the cloudless sky. Dean pats his pistol before they head down the Indian trail, though whom the gesture is meant to reassure is unclear. Not many people are around, it being the middle of a weekday, and the ones they do see give them a wide berth thanks to the shotgun slung across Sam's back. Castiel walks ahead and when a young girl, no older than four, tries to approach him he stops, head cocked—but her father pulls her away, whispering hurriedly as he glances over his shoulder at Castiel's heavy clothing.

But the layers of Jimmy's old life isn't the only odd note; it's unsettling to see the angel stride down the wood and dirt path in the bright sunlight, as though it would be more natural for him to prowl through a forest long dead. The sense of being out of place just adds to the brothers' growing sense of unease, foreboding layered on top of their natural wariness.

Around them the ground starts to change, soft swells rising here and there. Castiel veers off suddenly, twigs snapping beneath his feet.

"Shit." Dean hurries after him with a quick look at Sam that says _If anybody sees us we're dead_ , stopping short when Castiel doesn't step onto a mound but just stands there as if outside a door.

Sam and Dean can't understand what Castiel sees, can't understand the walls of freshly cut wood, the drying skins, the rising smoke that told the world that this was a home, once.

"There's nothing here. We need to go farther in," says Castiel, and he's moving again, coat flapping as he weaves among the trees.

The trees grow closer and older the deeper they go, summer grass blending into marshland as the temperature begins to drop. A gust of wind makes Dean glance around, never pausing because Sam's got his shotgun out now and there's something wrong but Castiel won't stop.

Then there's a tangle of roots in front of them, the remains of a vast oak stretching broken across their path. The angel reaches out and under, lifting the rotted trunk easily, and Sam can't hesitate when told to get the small bag lying there.

Dean almost doesn't have to look. "A hex bag."

"Their base is nearby." Castiel lets the tree fall again, the crash an echo of an echo.

"We're way off from where Janet said they grabbed her kid. Could this be a trap?" Sam's got the bag open—it's the same combination of ingredients as the talisman on Charlie's backpack.

Castiel gives him one of his hard, indecipherable looks. "No. They've moved." He turns to Dean, and Dean doesn't need any further prompting to flick open his lighter. Sam throws the bag down as it starts to burn, the smell of burning bone leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

"We should stay together now," Dean says as he pulls out his pistol, gesturing in a circle with his other hand. Sam nods and draws close. Castiel lingers by the tree for a moment, staring out over the marsh like he's waiting for something, before joining the Winchesters.

They’re back to back, holding their breath with guns ready, and just when Sam lets out a sigh Dean hears a loud thump ahead of him. Castiel breaks formation, vanishes, and it all goes to hell.

Sam’s gone somewhere and Dean follows the sounds of fighting through the woods, looking for the tan flash of Castiel’s coat, when suddenly there’s a high-pitched drone. He can barely hear it but even so it gets stronger and stronger, working its way into his bones like it’s been there before.

Just before he blacks out he realizes what it is.

Castiel’s screaming.

\--

Dean wakes up with silver blurs in front of his eyes and the hard press of stone against his back. Still groggy, he tries to roll over, only to find himself trapped—

His vision and mind clear rapidly as adrenaline surges through him, makes him struggle against the wires spiderwebbed across the top of the cave. It's no good; the metal cuts into his shins and knuckles and refuses to bend.

There's a dip behind him that gives him just enough space to turn his head. The rock wall to his left is already a familiar sight but on his right is Castiel, suspended a few feet away with his eyes closed. Dean's throat hurts as he looks for signs of life, of breathing, before remembering that Castiel doesn't need to breathe but he does need to open his eyes _goddamnit_ —

"Dean." The blue is almost luminescent in the dim light, and Dean breathes.

"Cas, you okay? That cut on your forehead, shouldn't it be healing?"

Castiel shifts, trench coat rustling as it bunches against the wires. "It's minor. Calm down. I've got this under control."

"Under control? Oh, sorry, it's hard for me to tell, what with us pasted to the roof of a cave by a bunch of fucking chicken wire!" Dean gives his arms an angry, useless shake.

"It's not just chicken wire. It has wards carved into it. If you focused you could see that," says Castiel, voice tight.

"Well, excuse me for _focusing_ on trying to get down," Dean snaps. "Wait. Wards. You mean angel repellant." When Castiel doesn't answer he huffs, "Great. So it was a trap—where's Sam?"

He cranes his neck, the movement setting off a rattle that's quickly swallowed up by the damp. Sam's not with them.

"Cas, where's Sammy?"

"I don't know." There's something wary in the way Castiel says it, and if Dean could get in his face right now he would.

"Look pal, I thought we were past the hiding shit—"

A low chuckle interrupts Dean's fury and they both look down. Standing below them is a woman with long, wavy black hair and black clothes, her white face seeming to float against all the darkness.

"And here I was worried you two would be plotting your escape. I'm Martha," she says, voice sickly soft, "nice to meet you." Her eyes flash demon black, like holes in her head.

"She's not human," Dean grinds out, jerking against the wires and hissing as they bite into his skin. "I gathered as much," Castiel says dryly, motionless even as his weight drags him down, his face white where the sigil-marked metal is digging in.

Dean scoffs. "Not so sweet Martha Lorraine, huh?"

"Livingston," corrects Castiel.

"No, no, let the kid have his fun," the demon says, reaching up through the wire to stroke cold fingers along Dean's cheek. "And he's right, actually. I always was partial to the name Martha."

Castiel hasn't taken his eyes off her. "The children?"

"Oh, back there somewhere with all my other doodads," she says carelessly, gesturing deeper into the cave. "This place is awfully convenient."

"It's not really here," responds Castiel.

"What do you mean?" Dean blurts out, earning him a sharp look from the angel.

Martha chuckles. "Made it all myself, honey. When the ley gates have done their part, it's going to be like this never existed."

"And the witches you're powering?"

"Them? I can cut them off like _that_ ," a shrug and a snap of the fingers, then she bares her teeth at Dean in a mockery of a smile. "Just did."

Dean hates asking these kinds of questions, but it's not really like there's much else he can do right now. "Where are they?"

"Far away. I think some of them are overseas. They're not important right now." _They're just humans_ comes through clearly.

"So, what, you're just going to leave them there?"

"Dean," Castiel says warningly.

" _Dean_ ," Martha rolls the name around in her mouth like a prize. "You're feisty!" She reaches up again to tap Dean on the nose. "Too bad you're not the one I want. I'll try to make your death not too painful, 'kay?"

She's got a knife out now, a long serrated one with stains on the handle that Dean doesn't want to think about. The blade's engravings look vaguely familiar, but Martha starts talking again and distracts him.

"You, on the other hand." She's standing directly under Castiel now, tapping the knife against her hip. "I do hope you remember me."

"All abominations look alike to me." The words are cold and flat.

Shaking her head, Martha lets out a short laugh. "Know what? I think you're lying, and I think you let yourself be caught. You wanted to be rid of one particular abomination. Me."

Castiel says nothing.

"Cas—" Dean stops, startled, when Castiel looks away from her, makes eye contact with him and looks _furious_.

"I will be rid of you," says Castiel, after a long pause.

"Yeah? Well, it's not looking good, what with you all warded and the blood addict not around to kick me out again."

"Blood—where's my brother?" Dean asks, voice barely controlled.

"Believe me, hon, if I had him you'd be the first to know," Martha says with disgust.

"Okay, just FYI, he's an ex-blood addict," Dean says, sarcasm leaching back into his voice to cover the relief. "And how do you know about him? Us?"

Martha's expression brightens at this, and she looks back at Castiel's stony gaze. "Why, angel, what a surprise. This is making everything so much more fun for me, you know."

She steps back, long coat swishing against her pants as she moves. Dean, busy watching her knife and trying to think of ways to fend off an attack, misses the way she tilts her head back and closes her eyes, throat moving jerkily as though there's something crawling around inside. When he looks back up it's to a demon's eyes and a man's voice.

"I'd just like to see my daughter again," says Jimmy, his voice coming quiet and wrecked through her sneering grin and oh this is wrong in so many ways.

"Stop that," Castiel says as Martha swallows and licks her lips.

Her eyes stay black but Jimmy's voice is gone. "You see," she says, as though Castiel never spoke, "there's a blind spring in this forest. Or rather, there will be once I wake it up. And before you ask, Dean," condescension spilling thick from her mouth, "that's a convergence of ley lines."

"You won't be able to build an altar." Castiel cuts her off, and if he's thinking of the man whose voice he's borrowing it doesn't show.

"Right, because I need a holy vessel to sacrifice. Too bad you're not wearing one." Martha snorts, amused by her own joke. "You know how hard those are to find these days? Didn't know what I almost had last time." She shakes her head. "Treated it like a milk run."

The words ring too loud in Dean's ears. "Pontiac. You've been following us."

"On the contrary! After I managed to drag myself back out of Hell, the last thing I wanted to do was get near an angel again. But this featherbrain's been tracking me, and, well. How could I say no to such a gift?" She's twirling the knife as she talks, pausing every now and then to toy with the dangling belt of Castiel's trench coat.

Dean looks at Castiel's face, trying to find answers there but all he can see is the slow burn of anger.

"This is where it ends."

Electricity crackles along the wires, subtle and frightening, but Martha just throws her head back and laughs.

"You're damn right it is." She snaps her fingers again and suddenly she's joined by five women, all clearly human from the way they scream once their eyes adjust to the darkness. Martha takes away their voices without even looking, leaving them clutching wide-eyed at their throats as she brings the knife up close to Castiel's face, throat, eyes. "Girls, what you've done so far is grade school. Want to know one way you can be a real witch?" The women just stare, tear-streaked faces gone blank. "Defile the vessel of an angel."

Dean wants nothing more than to feel the bloody smack of his flesh against hers, to feel the cartilage of her nose crack as her smile disappears, but there's just hot white pain in front and cold wet hardness behind and he can't move, can't do anything but watch and this is always how it goes—

She cuts Castiel's arm free and the knife bites down, Jimmy’s dark cold blood filling the creases of his palm—

Dean’s screaming his name and then there’s a sound like thunder and it’s all happening fast, too fast—

Everything goes dark then light when Sam climbs through the cave’s mouth, and the shotgun is still smoking when he raises it and fires again into Castiel’s shoulder, tearing through more wire and suddenly the angel’s on the ground, crouched and free, the words spilling from his throat like it hurts.

“ _Mykmah a-yal prg de vaoan, ar quasb tybybf, doalym od telokh_ ,” Castiel growls, low and fierce, the witches silent with eyes wide as they stretch out of existence.

He turns to the demon, slamming his bloody hand against her forehead and Dean can hear the howl of exorcism, the burn of her destruction.

Then Sam's there, cutting Dean down as he mutters "I've got you" like it's something that needs to be said aloud, and Castiel's moving already, a trail of congealed blood leading toward the back of the cave. Dean tries to stand too quickly, staggers back into Sam's arms.

"Took you long enough," he says breathlessly. "Bitch."

Sam scoffs. "Where are the kids? ...Jerk."

"Back there, she said. Follow the red brick road." Dean points. The day is fading fast now and maybe it's just a trick of the light but it's starting to seem like the stones are crumbling, turning into dirt—

"Fuck!" Sam starts dragging Dean away, stumbling as Dean pushes him off and runs on his own. They dive through the collapsing entrance, Dean pulling Sam that final distance when the ground closes over his feet.  
All that's left of the cave is a few stones here and there that look just a bit off, out of place somehow, but everything else seems untouched. It's a few long moments before they find themselves able to talk.

"Where were you?" Dean doesn't look up, his eyes flicking back and forth across the grass.

Sam starts to reach for his pocket, shakes his head. "Cas can explain. Where is he?" There's no sign of movement underground.

"Ah, he'll be fine. What's a bunch of dirt to an angel?" Dean shoots Sam a look, too quick for him to figure out what it means.

They fall silent again, staring at the too-smooth mud and listening as their breathing evens out. Sam bites his lip, about to say something, then Dean's cell phone rings. Dean opens it on autopilot, eyes still fixed on the ground.

"Hello?"

"Dean. Where are you?"

"Oh, Cas— _Cas_?!" Dean's fingers go white on the phone. "What—Cas, where are _you_?"

Castiel's answer—"In the hotel room with two children"—is almost lost beneath Sam's equally confused outburst; Dean turns his back, chops the air with his free hand as a signal to shut up. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a short breath. "We're still in the woods, waiting for you to bust out of the ground. What the hell, Cas?"

"That will be a very long wait. I'd suggest getting here quickly. The children are starting to wake up." His voice is quiet, hushed even, but the impatience of the cave hasn't left him.

There's only one thing Dean can think of to say to this. "I'm going to kill you."

"I doubt that. Get here soon."

Castiel hangs up, the dial tone loud enough for Sam to overhear, and Dean glares at the phone.

\--

When they get back to the hotel, the kids—Charlie, luckily, and a girl that Janet should be able to identify, and it's too late now for the other ones still missing—are fast asleep, laid out on the bed closest to the door. Dean squints suspiciously at Castiel, standing in the corner next to the window, but the angel's face is stubbornly impassive.

Sam drops to his knees and checks the kids for injuries, large hands light and gentle. A quick nod tells Dean that they're fine, should be taken home as soon as possible.

"I'll do it. Get some rest," Sam says, and Dean's too tired to really protest. After he's left, carrying Charlie with one arm and the girl with the other, Dean pulls off his dirty t-shirt and flops down on the now-empty bed.

Dean stretches out, joints popping, and nuzzles his face into the pillow. After a few moments he opens his eyes, looks up, and frowns.

"You going to watch me sleep? Thought we were done with that. Why don't you go take your coat to the dry cleaner's or groom your wings or something—you know, take five."

Castiel looks down at his shoulder, and when he looks back up the Rorschach stains of Jimmy's blood are gone. He holds Dean's gaze, and Dean gets the feeling that the angel's trying to say something but it's in another language and he can't understand. Then he blinks once, straightens his back, and disappears without a word. Feeling slightly let down, Dean exhales, deliberately clears his mind, and slips into a light doze.

\--

The snow reaches his ankles with each step closer to the edge, until there's just the cliff and the sky. The foreign heart in his chest is thudding, the air here is too thin, but the valley below is full of clouds and an ancient whispering that makes him think of home.

A dark stripe of thunder curls its way to the surface, and Castiel's reminded of Sam, of the demon blood shot through the boy like flawed marble; one wrong strike and so much would be lost. But Sam's not his responsibility, no. Nobody is. His responsibility is the welfare of mankind, of his Father's greatest creation, and if he happens to prize a few humans above others, then that's his prerogative. His choice.

Then there's a howling, a roar of wind and pain that says only _We found you we found you we found you_.

\--

Sam's back too soon, the creak of his footsteps jerking Dean away from the edge of dreams. He's brought some deli sandwiches, and the crackle of butcher paper and the smell of mustard make Dean give up on his nap. It's better for the body to sleep at night, anyway, he tells himself as he pulls a chair back over to the small table and catches the sub half Sam tosses his way.

They eat in silence, Sam reading the back pages of a local newspaper between bites.

"You got a pen?"

Dean leans back, ignoring the way the leather sticks against his skin. "When was the last time we took a break? Went on vacation?" Sam looks at him in disbelief, and he shrugs. "It's summer, it's hot as fuck, we just came this close to being sliced and diced, and we saved some babies. I'd say we deserve a little something." But his body language's wrong now, almost too relaxed, like this is a test.

Sam studies him before answering. "It was Cas's idea," he says, pulling out the now-crumpled knight from his pocket and laying it on top of the obituaries. "He gave this to me this morning and said I'd understand when the time came." The quote's in a silly, pompous voice, and Dean cracks a grin.

"And did you?" He sits forward, elbows on the table as he picks his sandwich back up.

"We're all alive, aren't we?" Sam shakes his head. "All I figured out was to, you know, zig-zag like in chess and then I did my best to follow you all. Still don't really get why me, or why—"

The lights flicker, but it's just the curtains whirling, the lamps buffeted by the gust of Castiel's sudden reappearance. He finishes spinning away from some distant enemy, coat flaring and sword flashing, before narrowly missing Sam's chair and banging into the radiator, eyes wide and startled.

"Jesus, Cas!" Dean jumps to his feet, but Castiel's already got his bearings and is steadying himself with a hand on the windowpane, the glass vibrating.

"They've tracked me down again. Stayed in one place too long." The angel is breathing, actually breathing in loud rasping gulps of air, which is more unsettling than anything else. "I'll be in touch."

"Whoa, hold up." Dean takes a step toward him, and Sam gets to his feet. "What about ice cream after?"

Castiel sighs and looks at him, brow furrowed, like he's speaking in gibberish. "The longer I stay here, talking to you—" He shakes his head. "Call me."

Even when they don't blink they can't see him disappear. Dean pauses, shakes his head, and turns to see Sam making Bitchface No. 7, or maybe the Dean How Many Times Do I Have To Ask What Is Wrong With You face—they're pretty similar. Rolling his eyes, Dean crosses over to his bed and picks his duffel up off the floor, pulling clothes out of the bedside drawers and stuffing them in the bag haphazardly. There's a short silence, interrupted here and there by Sam's various and familiar sounds of disapproval.

"Okay, what? I can feel you still making that face." Dean doesn't turn around, just gives the bag's sticky zipper an angry yank.

"He's at war, Dean." Sam huffs, and Dean can _hear_ him put his hands on his hips.

"So are we."

"You know, maybe you could try pulling your head out of your ass every now and then—"

With a scoff, Dean starts slamming the drawers shut. "Look who's talking." The top drawer won't close right, dog-eared phonebook pages muffling the bang Dean needs. At a loss, Sam lets the sullen tension drag out. They finish packing in silence, the shuffle of fabric against metal a poor substitute for conversation.

The sky outside is as grey as their moods and the oppressive heat has turned to a wind that rumbles around the Impala's frame—it's not cold but it's different. Dean puts in Led Zeppelin IV without bothering to rewind it from the last song; Sam undoes his seat belt to turn and dig around behind him for a hoodie, wriggling into it and hunching down.

About four hours later, they start seeing signs for a place called the Wilton Candy Kitchen. "We're going there," says Dean matter-of-factly. "Hand me a phone, Sam."

Castiel's voice comes through reedy and distant. "Hello, Dean. The signal doesn't seem to be very good this far away from the Earth's surface, so be quick."

Sam raises an eyebrow at the expression Dean makes, but Dean just brings the phone back to his ear and readjusts his one-handed grip on the steering wheel.

"We're going to be in Wilton, Iowa in another hour. Meet us at the Candy Kitchen."

"Okay." There's a crackle then the line goes dead. Dean flips the phone back to Sam and turns the tape over again for the fourth or fifth time in a row; Sam's this close to getting sick of it, but the clouds spreading ahead of them dim the sunlight and make Dean look older so he lets it go.

"Thinking about me baby and my happy home," sings Robert Plant. "Going, going down to Liverpool."

"What," Dean says.

"Jimmy likes this song," Castiel says behind them, and Dean nearly hits an oncoming semi.

"How—"

"I triangulated."

Sam tries to ignore Dean's sputtering and turns his face to the window in an effort to doze off, but the jangly '80s pop is too cheerful. His eyes are still open when the old restaurant comes into view, and Dean drops his griping in favor of deciding aloud what he might get.

"They're supposed to still use real Coke syrup—how does an ice cream float sound, guys?" His answer is a pair of shrugs. "Okay, that's one of the more annoying habits you've picked up on Earth, Cas. I bet he got it from you, Sam," Dean says with a note of thinly disguised pride. Sam just laughs over the clunk of the gearshift, still shaking his head as he opens the car door.

Castiel gets out slowly, pausing with his hand on the handle. The pattern of light is still there, but this new point is less bright than the others. "Dean, are you sure about this?"

"You're the one who was insisting on it before we even started the hunt." Dean shoves the keys into his pocket, swinging around to face Castiel. "If this is because we didn't save all of them—" He bites the inside of his cheek. "Charlie's fine."

Dean looks almost petulant, Castel thinks, like he's the boy in Bobby's photograph. His photograph now, that brief moment of life compressed into a few square inches. He inclines his head in acknowledgement and Sam lets out the breath he was holding.

"Don't worry, Sammy, you're still the queen bitch here. Girly moment's done," Dean says with a clap of his hands. "Let's go inside!"

Sam doesn't even try to look apologetic, shooting an indulgent smile at Dean as he waves Castiel on ahead of them. "You good?"

"I'm good."

\--

If Sam didn't know better—and man, did he wish he didn't—he'd think that going inside the Wilton Candy Kitchen was like going inside one of Dean's sex fantasies. He's already decided what he'd like, despite knowing that his brother will just order whatever he wants for all of them, but Dean's still standing in front of the counter like he's steeling himself for receiving communion.

"Decide already—I'm starving over here!" Sam shouts over from the old-fashioned booth he and Castiel have settled into. The old man waiting for Dean's order chuckles, makes some suggestions that are politely ignored.

Dean puts his hands on the counter, licks his lips. "Three bowls of Rocky Road. Wait, scratch that, I'll have mine be a cone."

"What, I don't get one this time?"

"You'll just get it all over your hair," Dean retorts, laughing over Sam's protest of "That doesn't even make sense!"

Castiel, fingers resting interlocked on the marble tabletop between him and Sam, can feel the pressure of limestone transformed, the rocky veins heated to a dense singularity then chipped away, marked by small ideas and smaller lives. But the way Sam's face lights up when Dean brings the ice cream over, the way Dean responds with a smile; there is something more here, a love that lights up the heavens.

The angel ignores the bowl in front of him and pulls the Polaroid out of his pocket, lays it on the table. He studies Dean, watches the shifting muscles beneath the skin. Dean's beginning to wear around the edges, reaction times a fraction slower and bones a little dirtier, but in him Castiel can still see the life that is the light of all mankind.

"What's that, Cas?" Sam points his spoon at the photo, and reaches out to turn it in his direction. Dean looks over, blanches, and tries to snatch it away—but his reluctance to sacrifice the remains of his cone means he loses out to Castiel's agility, which leaves them with Castiel holding the photo up for everybody to see.

"You," Dean jabs a finger at Castiel. "Tell me where the hell you got that, and _you_ ," he hisses at an increasingly red-faced Sam, "Stop laughing _right now_ or so help me God, I'll tell everybody about how whenever you kinda miss that douche Gabriel and won't admit it you watch that Casa Erotica DVD and—"

"T-That's a lie!" Sam splutters, shooting a panicked look at Castiel. The angel turns to him and considers this, expressionless for long enough to make Sam start seething, before returning his attention to Dean.

"Bobby made a gift of it to me after a conversation about fathers and sons. It seemed appropriate," Castiel says, showing him the note on the back.

Dean's all set to whine about how this means Bobby has more of these just waiting to be used as blackmail material goddammit, but the quiet look in Castiel's eyes makes him bite his lip. The handwriting is too familiar to care about, but the fact of the memento's survival hollows out his chest in a not entirely unpleasant way. Sam's calmed down, has taken the photo from Castiel and is turning it over in his hands like if he did that long enough he'd be able to remember the moment for himself.

"You had a bad cold," Dean says, glancing at him. "Spent the day all wrapped up in blankets and passed out in front of the TV." Sam chuckles quietly and passes the photo to his brother; he's here now, part of whatever this is and he tells himself that's what matters more.

When Dean's fingertips touch the Polaroid's white border the history of light threaded through the clouds and trees of the Midwest shifts, locks into place. The directionless buzzing becomes a steady hum, a song more of completion than belonging. Castiel could lose himself in this sound of life, so different from the battlefield that has become his home.

Finally, Dean looks up and into Castiel's eyes. "Thanks." He slides the photo back and that's it, the memory's been filed away. But it goes deeper, somewhere they don't need to talk about because the angel knows, can see the stream of longing, and he is warmed and is glad.

Sam starts cleaning up, piling Dean's dirty napkins in his bowl, and Dean reaches for Castiel's untouched ice cream.

"You gonna eat that?"

Sam snorts, starts laughing again. "Some things never change, do they?"

Castiel finds himself unwilling to disagree.

\--

 

They open the door and walk out into a day that's turned damp and grey, with air that reminds Castiel of the moment before Creation.

"What's up with the weather?" Dean says as he tilts his head back and squints at the clouds. Sam starts to shrug in response, then catches himself.

"The witches; they were tapping earth magic, right? But now—" He glances over at Castiel for confirmation.

"Yes," the angel says, and the rain begins to fall.

It's like the sky's been sliced open beneath the rivers of Rahma and Al-Kawthar, empyrean waters sluicing across their upturned faces, and Dean lets out a whoop. His shirt's become a second skin, his wet hair is black against his scalp, and he looks radiant—all wide grin and green eyes and warm body and _human_. Castiel, watching this man, allows the rain to soak into his coat and squish around in his penny-loafers.

Sam fidgets, still standing dry under the awning. "And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely," Castiel tells him, low and quiet, and even after all this time he can't help the breathless choking feeling that comes with being forgiven. He steps away from the building, gives his head a little shake, and breaks into a run as Dean claps and cheers after him.

"All men will be sailors then, until the sea shall free them," says the angel.

Dean turns, looks at him with surprise and a little bit of something else.

"I never took you for a Cohen fan."

"I'm not." The emphasis is subtle but unmistakable. Sam, over by the car, tries to say something but the rain's all they can hear. For a moment Dean thinks of _Castiel_ —the full name heavy and unreal in his mind—all shadow and electricity, thinks of the something ancient and cold coiled inside that flesh, and drops his eyes from Jimmy's face.

  
**End.**   


**Author's Note:**

> This would not have been brought into existence if it hadn't been for my best friend Maria and her prompt - as she is well aware it stopped being a drabble rather quickly and then there's all the whining she put up with for about five months HAVE YOU LEARNED YOUR LESSON.  
> Thanks also to Estella May for her insightful and very valuable review of the first draft, and last but hardly least there's tinypinkmouse - where do I start? You are a great beta and a fabulous human being. Thank you so much.


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